


but if we were demigods (pick your poison)

by talking_tina



Series: but if we were demigods [1]
Category: Cobra Starship, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Desolation Row, Alternate Universe - Punk, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-03
Updated: 2013-11-03
Packaged: 2017-12-31 09:40:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1030167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/talking_tina/pseuds/talking_tina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gabe thought twice about hitting on the blonde at the bar.</p>
            </blockquote>





	but if we were demigods (pick your poison)

**Author's Note:**

> superpunk!au where everyone here could totally kick our asses.
> 
> Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction using fictional characters based in the likenesses of real people. Never happened, and I do not own these names.

Gabe thought twice about hitting on the blonde at the bar.

For one thing, the dude was five-foot-four and downing liquor like Kool-Aid. His boots were steel-toed. His jacket was covered in patches for seven local punk bands, and all of them could kick Gabe's ass. He was on his third cigarette since Gabe started staring, and his hair was perfect. The guy wouldn't give Gabe the time of day.

And the guy was friends with the sketchy bartender. Gabe had a lot of unpaid drinks on his tab. He avoided the sketchy bartender.

Then again, Gabe was still pretty new in this shitbag town. Worst case scenario, he'd get punched and make a friend of whoever helps him up....uh, assuming someone would help him up.

He fiddled his snakebites with his top teeth. They were still fresh; they burned like the bad acid he dropped ten minutes before getting them. It was Nate's idea. Nate was Gabe's first friend in this filthy city, and he knew how to party. Gabe might keep him around.

If this blonde didn't steal his attention first.

It was decided. Gabe stood, ran his fingers through his hair, and swaggered up to Short, Blonde, and Adorably Intimidating.

"Did it hurt?" he began.

"I will fucking rip those snakebites off your lip, I swear to God."

Mayday. Mayday. Fighter pilot Saporta shot down by the Red Baron of sleezy pick-up lines.

Shortie looked up, scowling like a-- like an angry puppy with eyebrows. The fuck.

"You're still here," he observed. "Beat it."

Gabe meant to say something witty and idiotic-- "I'd rather beat you"-- but his mouth only got the "idiotic" part and spat "Yo, learn to take a joke, you little shit."

The whole place went quiet. The barkeep looked up, eyes flashing. Two scruffy guys from the other side of the bar stood up and made a beeline for them.

Shortie's eyes got narrow, and he slid off the barstool. He barely reached Gabe's shoulders. "I told you to beat it," he said.

And now Gabe decided to get smart. Not smart-smart, as in walking away and leaving this guy alone. Smartmouth smart, as in "I wanted to beat you, dude, but you seem to get off fine with the stick up your ass, so never fucking mi--"

Suddenly, the barkeep had a fistful of his hair and slammed his head down into the gnarled wood of the bar. Somewhere behind the fireworks, Gabe watched some well-meaning patrons jump to his aid as the scruffy guys leaped to defend Shortie.

He spent most of the brawl concussed. He stayed that way until he snapped out of it a few blocks down the road, puking into a garbage can with Vicky by his side.  
Ah, Vicky. She always materialized when he needed a rescue. His knight in ripped skinny jeans and godawful mascara.

She scratched her nose ring. "You feelin' better, Gabey baby?"

He raised his head long enough to stammer "Possibly. Probably? Perhaps." And then he went down for another round of retching.

When he looked up again, she had one perfect eyebrow raised. "What's that on your hand?"

"Blood? Bruises? Both. No? Yes."

She scoffed and grabbed his palm. "Looks like numbers," she said.

Gabe rescued his hand from her grip and examined it like a fresh wound. It was a string of numbers scrawled in blue ink. There was a name below them, consisting of a "P" and some wavy lines.

It rushed back to him in a breathless sprint: being pulled expertly out of the fight, off that one dude with the 'fro-- being scribbled on, kissed so dirtily his entire injured awareness tunneled to that hotwetwarm sucking on his tongue, and then tossed back into the fray like some helpless ragdoll with a hard-on.

By that fucking bartender.

" I'll be damned." Gabe rolled over and sagged against the trash can. "I'll be motherfucking damned."

"I'm pretty sure everyone this side of town is damned," Vicky said. "And you owe me for this, by the way."

His mind turned to, of all things, his tab. If he ever wanted to get with the bartender, he would have to come up with some cash. And wow, did he ever want to get with the bartender.

"Yeah," he said, laughing breathlessly. "You and everyone else in that bar."

Then he puked on her boots. It was a nice touch.


End file.
